


Adam's Atoms Remain

by HerRosesNeverFall



Series: The Lazarus'verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Writer is Not Religious), Adaptations of Biblical Lore, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angelic Lore, Angels, Angels are Dicks (Supernatural), Antichrist Sam Winchester, Apocalypse, Biblical References, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Canon Typical MCD (They Get Better), Castiel (Supernatural)'s Handprint, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Castiel is in Love with Humanity, Christianity, Churches & Cathedrals, Crucifixion, Dean Is Humanity, Dean Winchester Has Powers, Dean in Hell, Dean-Centric, Demon Blood, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Diverges After Ep 4.04 Metamorphosis, Divine Dean, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Odor of Sanctity, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Recinarnation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Righteous Man Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Sick Dean Winchester, Stigmata, Visions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2020-05-02 01:31:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19189183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerRosesNeverFall/pseuds/HerRosesNeverFall
Summary: Six Months Ago, Dean received the stigmata- wounds that suddenly appeared on his body, bringing with them visions of crucifixion and the sickening smell of roses. He hoped turning water into wine and fighting Lucifer would be the extent of being The Second Coming, but he was wrong.The Apocalypse is here and Dean will have more to fight than he ever imagined.Dean may be the Messiah, but he doesn't feel like it.





	1. Ain't No Grave

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains ideas and concepts that some might consider blasphemous. First and foremost, this is my attempt at coalescing Christian mythology with Supernatural's own mythology. Secondly, despite this premise, I am not a person of faith. I am an irreligious individual who has a love for Christian mythology strictly as mythology. While there is a Catholic-leaning - by virtue of my own upbringing and to a certain degree the subject matter - I take my inspiration from many different sources. Some are historical and some are mythological. Some are canonical and some are non-canonical. Above all else, it is my goal with this fic to be as impartial as humanly possible.
> 
> A special thanks to gillasue345 for being my wonderful beta.
> 
> Here's a companion [Spotify Playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3NFf6bFuEVidn8qQmJYDgM?si=BBqUwwsxQQC0bCOPCdQyzA) Enjoy!

**_April 10, 2009._ **

**_Sioux Falls, South Dakota._ **

 

_"Dean!”_

Bobby heard Sam’s scream all the way from the library. His voice was distant, an echo from deep within a pool of dark water. He opened his eyes to find himself sitting at his desk, a pile of books resting underneath him. As he lifted his head, a yellowed page stuck to his face.

“Bobby!” Sam screamed again. It cut through the fog, loud and panicked.

Bobby jumped to his feet, knocking the chair over as he rose. He darted up the stairs. When he pushed the bathroom door open; the sickeningly sweet aroma of roses he had come to associate with fear flooded his nose.

His gaze locked on the sight in front of him. Sam was crouched on the bathroom floor, holding Dean’s limp and bloody body in his hands by his shoulders, the front of his plaid button down and jeans stained with blood.

Sam glanced at him. “Bobby,” Sam’s voice was shaking. “ Is—Is he—”

Thick, oily blood mixed with water ran down Dean’s side, pooling on the sleeping bag beneath his body. He was quiet and still. Motionless. Breathless. His head slumped against his chest.

Gently, so gently, grief flashing cold through his entire body, Bobby placed two fingers to Dean’s neck. There was no pulse.

“He’s gone, son.”  Slowly, he pried Dean’s shoulders from Sam’s blistered hands and laid his body back down on the sleeping bag.  “Come on.”  Bobby picked Sam up and walked him out of the bathroom.

Bobby helped Sam lean against the wall.

Sam slumped against it, his eyes vacant and fixed on the bathroom door opposite him. “He just passed out and then there was all this blood—”

A lump grew in Bobby’s throat. He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, son.”

Sam looked down at his hands before looking back at Bobby. He glared, his eyes glossed with tears. “No. It's _not_ gonna be okay.”   

Bobby didn't say anything. He squeezed Sam’s shoulder before he turned and walked back into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a deep breath.

Leaning against the door, Bobby stared at the task in front of him. He had to wash the blood off of Dean’s body. With the sheer amount of blood on him the easier thing to do would have been to put Dean in the bathtub and bathe him. Dean weighed a good fifty pounds lighter than he normally did and it would be far from Bobby’s first time moving a corpse, but a dry corpse was different from a water-soaked corpse and too much moisture would only speed up decay.  
  
Rubbing his eyes, Bobby grabbed a bucket and a sponge brought into the base of the bathtub. and turned the faucet on. Once the bucket was full he shut the water off and walked over to Dean’s body. Kneeling on the floor, he began to wash Dean’s forehead, still warm with body heat and flushed with color, wiping away the blood.

To Bobby's shock, the gashes had turned into scars. They were no longer open wounds, jagged crevasses of torn and punctured skin, but raised purple bumps. The same was true of the wounds on Dean's wrists, ankles, and back. Even the gash on Dean's side had scarred over.

The scars were a sign to Bobby of something he and Dean had already known. That the wounds were a part of him. They always had been. Tears streamed down Bobby’s face, and he wiped them away gruffly with the sleeve of his forearm.

When he was done, Bobby dumped the red tinted water down the bathtub drain, throwing the bucket and sponge into the base as sat down on the edge, wiping his brow. He glanced around the bathroom. The grout was caked with drying with blood. Strips of pink gauze hung from the bathtub curtain rod like cobwebs. A half-drunk bottle of consecrated wine lay tipped over in the corner, the wine dripping on to the floor.

The whole room reeked with the smell of roses. Bobby wondered how long it would take to get the smell and the blood out. Another part of him wondered if the smell even _could_ be scrubbed away. Another part of him didn’t want to think about it.

Slowly, Bobby turned his gaze back over to Dean, staring at him.  Were it not for the scars and the stillness of his body, he almost looked as though he was sleeping.  

This corpse was a far cry from the one Bobby had cleaned a year earlier when Dean had gone to Hell. That corpse had been a mauled mess of eviscerated organs and vicious hellhound bites. Bobby had to suture his torso back together to get him ready for burial. The smell had been awful.

And yet, somehow, this was worse.

Bobby turned away, wiping his eyes again. He reached into his back pocket and pulled his flask, taking a deep pull. Bobby stood up and put the flask back in his pocket and walked over to the door, he opened it slowly.

“Sam,” Bobby cleared his throat. “Can you...help me move him?”  
  
Sam didn’t look up at Bobby. “Where are you gonna..... _put_ him?” Sam asked, ice in the edge of his voice.  
  
“The panic room,” Bobby said.  
  
Sam nodded. With Sam holding his torso and Bobby holding his feet, they carried Dean down into the basement. They dressed him in some old clothes Bobby had laying around and placed him on top of the cot.

“What do we do now?” Sam asked, crossing Dean’s hands over his lap.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

Bobby put his hand against Sam’s back, walking him out of the panic room. He closed the door behind them. At the stairs, he stopped at the house’s old thermostat and turned the temperature down as low as it would go.

He shrugged, taking a deep breath. “For whatever happens Easter morning.”

 

* * *

 

  ** _April 12, 2009._**

  ** _Sioux Falls, South Dakota._**

 

The sun hadn’t even risen when Bobby made his way down into the basement and over to the panic room. He opened the slot on the door, peering into it.

Dean’s body was on the cot. Lifeless and still.  
  
Sighing, Bobby closed the slot and walked back upstairs. He went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee, adding a healthy dash of Bailey's.

He only got to his second sip when Sam walked into the kitchen, heavy bags under his eyes and his hair a rats nest of grease. He was wearing a slept-in pair of wrinkled jeans and a gray hoodie. The same clothes he had worn for the last two days.    
  
“Did you check on Dean?”  
  
“I did.” Bobby nodded.  
  
“And?”  Sam asked leadingly.  
  
Bobby shook his head.  
  
Sam bit his lip. “Maybe,” his chest heaved, “we gotta wait until tomorrow afternoon. When it’s _exactly_ three days.”

“Maybe,” Bobby said. “The Bible got everything else wrong about him, it’s probably wrong about the resurrection too.”

Part of Bobby was sure there wouldn't _be_ a resurrection.  After all, there was no resurrection for Jesus.  Dean _was_ the resurrection. Jesus’ soul reborn. Dean had told Bobby that much during their fishing trip. The same was likely true of Dean.

Another part of Bobby needed to hope for a resurrection anyway, if not for Sam's sake, then for his own. He knew how far off the reservation Sam had gone the last time Dean had died. He knew well Sam wouldn't be able to deal with it again.

But despite his hope, Bobby knew the truth: Dean either wasn’t coming back at all or, if he was, he would be coming back as something else. _Someone_ else.

Bobby took another sip of his coffee.

 

* * *

 

 

**_April 13, 2009._ **

**_Sioux Falls, South Dakota._ **

“What time did Dean—?” Bobby asked, walking down the basement stairs.  
  
Sam followed behind him. “About Three-Fifteen,” he said.  
  
Bobby glanced at his watch. 3:22.

They made their way over to the panic room. When they reach it, Sam stopped.

Bobby nodded. He walked over to the door and once again opened the slot.

Dean lay on the cot. Still and lifeless.  
  
Bobby closed the slot. He didn’t say anything.  
  
Then he heard the sound of a table screeching across the concrete followed by the breaking of glass. He turned quickly to find Sam standing next to an upended table, broken mason jars and old paint cans were strewn around it and him, his puffy eyes fixed on the ceiling.

 “What was the Goddamn point of this!?” Sam yelled, spit spewing from his mouth. “How the fuck is he supposed to fight Lucifer as a fucking corpse you winged assholes?!”  
  
Bobby walked over to Sam slowly, putting his hand out to his shoulder. “Sam…”

Sam jerked his body away from him. He shook his head, sobbing while he sank on to the table. “I can’t do this again, Bobby! I can’t!”  
  
Bobby paused, he took a deep breath.  “I know you can’t. I can’t either.” He blinked tears away from his eyes.  “So maybe don’t bury him this time. We build a pyre, give Dean a proper send off. Like we shoulda done before. Like he woulda wanted.”

“No.”  Sam shook his head. “I can’t do that either, Bobby.”

“We _gotta_ , Sam. We gotta do _something_ with his body,” Bobby pleaded “It’s been three days. "If—" Bobby paused. "If Dean's not coming back we can’t _wait_ any longer.”

Sam didn't say anything. After a long while his chest heaved.

"Fine.” Sam nodded, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I’ll build the pyre. You wrap him.”

Bobby walked over to the panic room door. He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before he opened the door.

 The first thing Bobby noticed was the smell. The _lack_ of a smell. There was no stench of decay, only the lingering smell of roses.

Bobby paused for a second, staring at the body. There was no bloat in the stomach, no bruising or discoloration where the body met the cot. There was no blood dripping from Dean’s mouth or nose as there _should_ have been. In fact, the body hadn’t even paled.

 “What the hell?”

 Bobby walked over to the body.  Gently, he picked up one of Dean’s hands, finding it warm. He jerked it back and forth, moving it at the wrist.  

 The hand wasn’t stiff or cold. The _body_ wasn’t stiff or cold.

 Dean was as fresh as the moment he died.  
  
“Balls,” Bobby whispered. “Sam!” This time he yelled.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  Sam asked, running over to the door.  
  
“Dean. He’s not-” Bobby took a deep breath. “He’s not decomposing.”

 Sam scrunched his eyebrows. “What do you mean ‘he’s not decomposing?’”  
  
“I mean the boy’s skin should be black and blue and his stomach should look like a damn water balloon and he’s not even _cold_ ,” Bobby's words were blunt.  
  
Slowly Sam stepped into the room. He stared at Dean for a moment before turning his gaze to Bobby. “But... _how_?”

 Bobby thought for a moment, focusing on the smell of roses that still lingered in the room.  “Maybe.” He took a deep breath. “Maybe Dean’s an Incorruptible.”

 Sam blinked.  "A _what_?”  
  
“It’s a thing in Roman Catholic lore. Sometimes saints when they die their bodies don’t decompose. It’s a sign of their sainthood and it’s used to canonize them, like miracles or apparitions. There’s a ton of examples: Bernadette of Lourdes, Clare of Assisi, Padre Pio. ”

 Instantly Sam scoffed. “Dean’s a _saint_ now?”

 “He _already_ was one, Sam.” Bobby deadpanned. “ In case you forgot who he is.”

 “So what...You're saying we should _leave_ Dean in here? And do what? Turn this into a chapel? A _shrine_?” Sam glared. “Dean would _hate_ that!”  
  
“What I’m saying is the _last_ thing we should do right now is burn him.”  
  
“No.” Sam shook his head. “Either Dean burns or we find a way to bring him back. Old Dean.”

 “Sam...we can’t bring ‘old’ Dean back.”

 “Yeah? How do you know?”

“Because there is no ‘old Dean’. He was _born_ that way, Sam,” Bobby said bluntly. “I mean, come on, he’s the fucking messiah for Christ’s sake. That’s not something Heaven hands out like ice cream after a little league win. The stigmata— this whole fuckin’ thing—is way beyond our pay grade. How many damn times do you gotta be told this!?”

Sam grew quiet, narrowing his eyes. “I need some air.” He turned and walked out of the panic room.

Bobby stood there and listened while Sam trudged up the basement stairs and out of the house, the front door slamming behind him.  
  
A few moments later Bobby followed him out to the front porch. A few yards away,  he could see Sam walking down the driveway of the salvage yard, with a flask in hand, picking up hubcaps and throwing them as he went.  

Taking a deep breath, Bobby made his way down the steps and over to Sam.

“Sam.”  
  
Sam stopped dead in his tracks. He shoved the flask quickly into his pocket.

“Sam I know this ain’t easy for you, but this is just how it is.  There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Maybe _you_ can’t. ” Sam’s grip tightened on the hubcap. “But I can.”

In an instant, Sam raised his hand holding the hubcap, whacking it against Bobby’s temple. The sound of metal and cracking plastic filled Bobby’s ears.  His vision quickly blurred as he fell, striking the pavement with a thud.

Everything went black.

 

* * *

 

Bobby awoke to a throbbing head and water dripping on his face. He opened his eyes to a twilight sky covered in black clouds, thunder booming in the distance.

“Sam?” He rasped out. There was no answer.

Slowly he stood up, his dizzy eyes glancing around the salvage hard. The Impala was still parked in the driveway, but Sam was nowhere to be found.

“Sam!” he called out again.

Again, there was no answer.

Groaning, Bobby limped his way back into the house and into the kitchen, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer and putting it to his head. He took out his cell phone and dialed Sam’s number.  

The phone had been disconnected.

 

* * *

 

**_April 19, 2009._ **

**_Sioux Falls, South Dakota._ **

  
After the fourth day of searching, it became clear to Bobby that Sam didn’t want to be found, so he went back home.

He went back down into the basement and went over to the panic room, once again opening the slot, his eyes locking on Dean’s body. It was the exact same way he had left it.  No discoloration. No bloat. Nothing. Dean could almost be sleeping.

Bobby stared at the body for a long time before he narrowed his eyes at it. “Fuck it,” he rasped. He made his way over to the basement door, grabbing an axe as he made his way upstairs.

He stacked a few wooden pallets and grabbed some scrap wood, and took it to a clearing in the salvage yard. Bobby began building a pyre, building it up with the remainder of the dead leaves from the previous fall.

 Half an hour later, Bobby poured gasoline on to the pyre. Tears filled his eyes.

Tossing the empty gas canister down on the ground with a groan, Bobby made his way back down into the basement.

As soon as his feet hit the cement floor, he saw it. The door to the panic room was open.

He ran over, tripping over the threshold.

The cot was empty.

The smell of roses had dissipated.

Dean’s body was gone.

“Balls.” 


	2. The Quickening

Air flooded into Dean’s lungs, filling his chest so fast it burned with pain. He gasped, his eyes snapping open. He sat up with a jolt. The first thing he noticed was the smell, or rather, the _lack_ of smell. For the first time in months, the air around him didn't reek of roses. Instead, he could smell iron, salt, and old cardboard boxes. 

Dean was in Bobby’s panic room.  The dark walls and dim light were a far cry from the blinding light of the bathroom he had been lying in what seemed to him just a few moments before. The last thing he remembered was a sharp pain in his side, slicing metal, the sudden cease of his heartbeat. The warm gush of liquid falling down his side, and finally, still darkness.

Instinctively, Dean placed his hand under the old T-shirt and flannel he was wearing and ran his fingers against the left side of his ribcage, expecting there to be gash, but there was none. Only a thick line of raised tissue.

He looked down at his hands, his gaze locking on his wrists. There were no wounds, no bruises with little drops of blood rising up from them. Only scars. Purple raised scars in rough circles marking the front and back of his wrists. Angry and fresh. The same was true of his ankles. 

It was then that Dean remembered. He and Jesus were vessels- Michael’s vessels, Sam and James were Lucifer’s. They were destined to fight and kill each other. And they would, if Dean didn’t find and stop Sam before he could kill Lilith. The last of the Seals. 

“Shit.” Dean jumped from the cot, all but stumbling out of it and ran to the door of the panic room, finding it closed, but not locked. He pushed the iron door open and ran out, climbing the basement stairs faster than he had run in months.  “Bobby!” he yelled. 

There was no answer.  

“Son of a Bitch!” He grit his teeth as he entered Bobby’s study, darting to the overfilled, leaning, bookshelf, rummaging through antique books and illuminated manuscripts. Most were in Latin, a few in Hebrew and Aramaic. 

Dean was looking through a half-worn out parchment scroll of old Hebrew when he heard footsteps behind him.  
  
He turned around to find Bobby standing a few feet behind him, holding a shotgun in his hand. 

"Dean? Is that-” Bobby’s voice cracked as he lowered the gun. “Is that...you?”

“Yes, it is, okay?” Dean said quickly. “I know what you’re thinking but I’m not a revenant or a demon or an angel or anything else, alright?”

“How do I know that?” Bobby asked.

“Bobby, We don’t -”  
  
“How do I _know_ that?” Bobby asked again, louder and forceful.

“Halloween, 1991.” Dean sighed putting the scroll down. “Me and Sam were Batman and Superman. I dared him to try to fly off one of your storage sheds. He broke his arm and I took him to the hospital on the bars of this old lime green schwinn stingray you-”

Before Dean could finish, Bobby ran over to him and hugged him, squeezing him tight. “You gotta stop dying on me son!” he cried.  
  
“I know, I know,” Dean hugged him back. He held for a long moment before pulling away from Bobby.  “How- how long was I out?”  
  
“A week.” 

“A _week_?!” Dean blinked. “And you didn’t bury me or burn me?”

“No. You -” Bobby wiped his eyes. “You weren’t decaying. ”  
  
“ I _what_?” Dean squinted.

“It’s a Saint thing,” Bobby explained. “Sam wasn’t too happy about it. That and the fact that you _stayed_ dead passed Easter. After that, Sam flipped out. He went on a demon blood trip and whacked me in the gourde with a hubcap. When I came to, he was gone.” 

“Well did you go _looking_ for him?”  
  
“Of course I did.” Bobby shot him a look. “Tracked him to Saint Cloud, but after that, the trail went dry. He’s covering his tracks.  Wouldn’t shock me if Ruby’s got some kind of hexbag cloaking him or something.” 

Dean dragged his hand down his face as he ran out of the study. “Fuck,” he hissed. “We gotta find him. Now. And stop him.” 

He marched into the foyer, quickly putting on his boots, socks and jacket before running into the kitchen, where, to his relief, he found the Impala’s keys lying haphazardly on the counter.

“Stop him from _what_ ?” Bobby asked following him into the kitchen.  
  
“Killing Lilith and breaking the final Seal.” Dean said bluntly, grabbing the keys. “ If he does, the world is gonna get fried and it will have me and him to thank for it.”  
  
“The hell are you talking about?”  
  
“I’ll explain in the car.” Dean padded Bobby quickly on the shoulder before making his way to the front door.  “Right now, we gotta haul ass.”

 

* * *

 

Dean’s hands gripped around the steering wheel of the Impala, his eyes moving from mirrors to windshield and back again, in a timed, rhythmic motion.  He only broke the pattern to play with the radio and to gaze quickly at the ‘Minnesota Welcomes You’ sign along the side of I-90.  
  
It was the first time in three months he had even been in the car and the first time in six months he had driven her. The smell of the leather, the hum of the engine, the grip of his hands on the steering wheel brought him such peace. The pressure of his foot against the gas pedal grounded Dean and made him feel like himself. His _old_ self. Before the stigmata, before Castiel, before- even - he went to Hell. 

He didn’t want to stop driving. Partly because he didn’t want the feeling to end, partly because he knew that when he stopped, he’d have to go looking for Sam. A Sam that, Dean hoped, wasn’t gone. 

Reaching down to the seat, Dean pulled a large paper cup out from a to-go tray and raised the straw to his lips, milk and chocolate rushing under his tongue.

Before turning onto the highway, they stopped at a Burger King where Dean ordered two double whoppers, large fries, onion rings and a shake. Within ten minutes, the food was gone. Only the shake and a few fries at the bottom of the grease-stained bag remained. It was more than Dean had eaten in months, so much so that he almost got nauseous from it, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. It was _real_ food. 

“So, let me get this straight...” Bobby shifted in the passenger seat. “You’re the vessel of Michael?”  
  
“The Michael Sword.” Dean took another sip from the shake. “Yeah.”

“And Sam’s the vessel of Lucifer?”  
  
"Yup." Dean nodded, popping a couple of the dregs of fries into the mouth."Also known as The Dragon."  
  
“And you’re supposed to fight each other? To the death? And take the planet along with you? Finish what Michael and Lucifer started when Michael chucked his baby brother Lucifer into the Pit?”  
  
“Pretty much. It’s an ‘As Above, so Below’ kinda thing.” Dean gestured with his hand, pointing up to the sky and down to the ground.

Bobby cocked an eyebrow.  “And you’re _sure_ of this?”  
  
Dean nodded. “It was the same thing before with...Old Me and Old Sam.” Dean took a deep breath, putting the cup down in his lap. “Jesus was the last Sword. His little brother James was The Dragon. It just never happened because it was stopped," Dean paused. “They s-stopped with...you know...crucifixion.” 

“So why is it happening _now_ ?” Bobby asked. “I mean, you boys have had other lives besides those two, right? Why didn't the angels start it sooner?"  
"Because they _couldn't_ ."  Dean was blunt. “See, best I can figure is that it’s not only a soul thing but also a _bloodline_ thing.”  Dean paused. “Me and Sam need to be born into the _same_ family and have the _exact same_ blood relationship. Most of the time, when we reincarnated- or whatever- something would be off. Like...we’d be brothers but I’d be younger and he’d be older or we’d be cousins. At least once we were sisters which- apparently- wasn’t close enough.  But a lotta times we weren’t even related.”  
“Explains why it’s taken two millennia.” Bobby nodded “So, you remember your other lives then?”

“Sorta?” Dean shrugged, “It’s like...remembering scenes from a movie you’ve never seen.” 

Bobby paused. “But how do you know it’s a bloodline thing?”  
  
Dean was quiet for a moment. “Well, I- _Jesus_ had like...six other siblings and plus-” He cleared his throat. “-he had a kid.”  
  
Bobby’s eyes went wide. “Jesus had _a_ _kid_?” 

Dean finished off his milkshake and awkwardly tossed it into the Burger King bag. “I was _gonna_ have a kid. My wife was pregnant when I got crucified.”  
  
“You had a _wife_?” Bobby blinked. He paused and chuckled. “Let me guess, it was Mary Magdalene and her sarcophagus is buried underneath the Louvre.”  
  
Dean shook his head and signed, annoyed. “The Da Vinci Code’s a bunch of crap, but they did get _a couple_ things right, yeah. She was my wife,” Dean paused. “And her name was Miriamne, by the way. She had eyes the color of honey and black hair… She always smelled like jasmine.” Dean grew quiet. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He took a deep breath. "You know, before I died, I asked Sam- James- to watch over them. I trusted him enough to take care of my wife and kid," Dean smiled sadly. "Now I can barely trust Sam to take care of my car." Dean pursed his lips. "Actually, I know for a fact that I _can't_ trust him." 

Bobby signed. "Well Dean, the whole point of reincarnation is to live _different_ lives so you can learn from them. Maybe the fact that you can't trust Sam now _is_ the point.”

"Maybe." Dean didn't say anything else.

 

* * *

 

**_April 20, 2009._ **

**_St. Cloud, Minnesota._ **

 

“Now, you’re sure you don’t want me to go in alone?” Bobby asked, straightening his tie. “It’s been a while since you’ve done this.”  
  
“I’ll be fine,” Dean said flatly, looking at his reflection in the Impala’s rearview mirror. “My FBI schtick ain’t _that_ rusty. Besides, if Barney Fife sees me sitting out here they’ll get suspicious.”  
  
Dean brushed his short bangs over his forehead with his fingers, trying to cover the purple-tinted scars that marked it to no avail. For months he had always worn some sort of beanie to cover them, but he couldn’t wear one into a police station while posing as a FBI officer. Without it, Dean felt almost naked.

Dean sighed, repositioning the mirror. Without another word he climbed out of the Impala’s driver’s seat, closing the door behind him. 

Bobby followed him anyway.

They made their way across the parking lot and up a flight of low, sprawling stairs that lead to a large, rectangular-shaped building that was nothing but brick and windows with Saint Cloud Police Department emblazoned on the side of it.  
  
They walked into the police station, made their way to the front desk, and pulled out their badges.  
  
“I’m Agent Kietel,” Bobby gestured to himself and then over to Dean. “This is my partner Agent DaFoe. We’d like to speak to Detective Connolly about the Holly Thompson disappearance.”  
  
They were led into the detective's office. Detective Connolly, a tall man in his forties with balding auburn hair, rose from his seat and greeted them. 

Shaking hands, Dean asked, “So what can you tell us about the disappearance?”  
  
Detective Connolly scoffed. “Honestly? Not much. According to her coworkers, she left her dayshift on the neonatal unit at the hospital around 6 PM Saturday night. Her husband called the hospital when she didn’t arrive home. Hospital security found her car, abandoned in the top level of the parking garage around midnight.

  
“Was there any sign of a struggle?” Bobby asked.  
  
“No.”

Dean cocked his eyebrow. “ And the camera’s didn’t catch anything?”  
  
“The cameras _shorted out_. There’s a ten-minute skip on the tape.”

“What about when the baby disappeared the week before?” Dean asked.  
  
Detective Connolly shot him a look. “You think those two incidences are _related_?”

“Well, you can’t rule it out, can you?” Bobby shifted his gaze over to Dean before turning it to Detective Connolly.

“Same thing. The tape skipped.” Detective Connolly shrugged. “But that aside, we have no reason to believe the two incidences are linked. A serial killer or a serial kidnapper wouldn’t switch between two different MO’s.”  
  
“Right,” Dean nodded. “Was there anything odd going on in her life lately?”  
  
“Odd?” Detective Connolly cocked an eyebrow.  
  
“Ya know...” Dean cleaned his throat. “...Like did her husband mention anything strange going on in their house?  Strange smells? Lights flickering?”  
  
Detective Connolly crossed his arms. “No, but he _did_ say she hadn’t been to church in a couple weeks.”

“And that was unusual for her?”  Bobby asked.

“Oh yeah,” Detective Connolly replied, nodding, pulling out his notes. “According to her husband she was at Saint Anthony’s every Sunday at 9:00 AM sharp. She was there every Thursday after work for adoration too. And she was a member of the choir, and had practice every other Wednesday.”  
  
“Well,” Dean sighed. “That’s all we need for now. If we need any more information we’ll call you.”  
  
With that, Bobby and Dean turned to leave. They took a couple paces before Detective Connolly called out.  
  
“Agent Dafoe.”  
  
Dean stopped. “Yeah?”  
  
“I don’t mean to be rude, but how did you cut up your forehead? Those look like pretty nasty scars.”  
  
“I was...”Dean licked his lips, thinking fast. “I was in Missouri chasing a meth head through a warehouse. When I grabbed him, the son of bitch threw me head first through a window.”  
  
“Yikes, Detective Connolly winced.  
  
“Tell me about it. But the fifty stitches and the tetanus shot in the ass hurt a helluva lot more.”  
  
“Well, that’s brave of you. Keep up the good work.”  
  
“Thanks.” Dean turned and awkwardly left the office.  
  
“Nice cover story, Don Johnson.”  Bobby scoffed.  
  
“Whatever.”  Dean rolled his eyes as they made their way out of the building and down the steps. “At least we got a confirmation of demons and where there’s demons, there’s Sam. ” As Dean was making his way across the parking lot, a pain began in the back of his head, but quickly moved to his temples. It was dull at first, but then turned throbbing and sharp like a knife. His head spun and his stomach turned.

Then came a voice. But it was not one Dean had heard before. It was feminine and it wept, shaken and scared. 

_"….Separated from Thee let me never be. From the malignant enemy, defend me….”_

The words stopped and the pain receded.  When Dean came to, he found himself lying on the pavement, Bobby hovering over him.  
  


“ Am I bleeding?” Dean looked down at his wrists. “Please tell me I’m not bleeding.” To Dean’s relief, he wasn’t.  
  


“No, you’re fine.” Bobby groaned, picking him up. “The hell just happened?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Dean paused, pulling his keys out of his pocket and handing them out to Bobby. “Maybe you should drive back to the motel.”  
  


“Ya think?” Bobby took the keys. He quickly opened the passenger side door, letting Dean in before he ran over to the driver’s side. Jumping into the car, he quickly pulled out of the parking space and out of the parking lot, barreling down the road.  
  


* * *

 

“So you heard a voice?” Bobby asked, handing Dean an ice pack.

Dean was laying on his bed in the motel room, a washcloth over his eyes. He took the ice pack and placed it inside the washcloth, pressed it against his throbbing temple. “Yeah, it was a woman I think. She was saying, ‘At the hour of death, call me.’ Some other stuff like that.”

Bobby froze. “The Anima Christi.”  
  
“The what?”  
  
“It’s a prayer,” Bobby said bluntly. He paused for a moment, looking at Dean. “to Jesus.”

“Great,” Dean took a deep breath. “So I can add ‘hearing prayers’ to my resume.” Dean paused. “You think it was Holly?”  
  
“Possibly,” Bobby sighed. “Why?”  
  
Dean swallowed. “Because wherever she is, it’s not good.”

 

* * *

 

**_April 20, 2009._ **

**_Corvuso, Minnesota._ **

 

Sam shuffled out the side door of an abandoned barn, the gravel kicking up under his boots. In one of his hands was a gallon milk jug. In his other hand was a makeshift funnel made out of the top of a Pepsi bottle. 

It reeked of sulfur and blood.  
  
As Sam walked further, he turned his eyes to a coffin-sized pit a few feet away.  It was smoking with the stench of gasoline and burning flesh. He turned and walked over to it, staring down at the flames for a moment before he tossed the funnel into the pit, watching as it melted into the flames.

Ruby walked over to him, a quart of charcoal lighter fluid in her arm. “You know, Sam.” She glanced down at the pit, tossing the bottle into the pit. “She was _human_ when we-”  
  
“I know,” Sam said bluntly.  
  
“And you’re okay with that?” 

“I _have to_ be,” Sam paused. “You’re _sure_ this is gonna be enough?” he asked, holding up the container.  
  
Ruby grinned.  “It will be _More_ than enough. You’ll be good and roided out for Lilith.” 

“Good.” 

With that, Sam and Ruby made their way over to her Mustang. Before Sam climbed in, he opened the trunk, placing the jug inside.  
  
Just before he closed the trunk, Sam caught sight of a gold and purple rosary beads laying haphazardly on the floor of the trunk. The chain was broken and one of the beads was missing. 

Sam squinted at it before picking it up,  
  
As soon as the beads touched Sam’s fingers, pain ran through his skin. Searing and throbbing through his hand.   
  
“Shit!” he hissed, dropping the beads into the dirt and cupping his hand in his other.  
  
Angry, bright red welts appeared in his palm. They quickly turned into raised yellow pockets of fluid. 

Sam looked down at the beads and glared at them.  
  
He kicked them with the sole of his boot **_  
_**

 

* * *

 

An odor Dean never could forget filled his nostrils, one that choked him with fear. The stench of pitch-black smoke and sulfur. The stench of bile, excrement, rot and decay. Pungent, vile and suffocating.

The scent of Hell.

Dean snapped his eyes open, expecting to find himself laying on a rack, bound and chained. His organs ripped and splayed around him. But he wasn’t lying on a rack.  He was laying on ice. An endless expanse of frozen water and fog that disappeared into pitch blackness. Frigid, dark and burning with cold.

Breathing frantically, he pulled himself up from the ice and looked around. Before Dean could call out, a figure appeared out of the fog and darkness. It had six pairs of wings, weighed down and encased in thick ice.  Even though the figure was covered in ice, there was a dull glow of blue light that emanated from it. Light that no doubt would have been otherwise brilliant and blinding.  
  
Though Dean had never met the figure before, he knew exactly who he was.  
  
Lucifer.  
  
“What is this?” Dean’s voice shook, his eyes not moving from Lucifer.  
  
“This?” Lucifer’s voice echoed through the fog, measured and calm, as he gestured to the area around him. “The Ninth layer of Hell. Better known as The Cage. You’re not _really_ here of course. The Cage isn’t open. Yet.  But I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.” He walked slowly over to Dean, stopping a few inches away from him. “It’s nice to finally meet you.” Lucifer reached out, trying to put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus.”  
  
Dean dodged it, moving his torso away. “Wrong sword, Old Scratch.”

Lucifer frowned.

"I’m _Dean._ ” Dean swallowed, glaring.

“Are you _sure_ ?” Lucifer asked. “After all, you have his _wounds_ , his _memories_ , his _very soul_ . Tell me, at this point, where does Jesus end and Dean begin?”  
  
Dean furrowed his brow. “Does this question have a _point_ or-”

“What I’m getting at is that you- more than anyone- know the pain of being forsaken by God. You remember your dying words, don’t you?” Lucifer cleared his throat. _“‘Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?!”_

Dean remembered the pain. The nails. The splitters in his back. The ache in his chest as he screamed toward the sky with no answer and the hot sting of tears in his eyes. _  
_  
Dean clenched his fists. “You wanna hurry this up?” He glared. “I don’t have enough bile left.”

Lucifer grinned. “My point - _brother_ \- is that you and I are very much alike.”  
  
“We’re _nothing_ alike!” Dean bellowed.  
  
“Oh, but we _are_ ! Two second-best sons who felt the pain of Father’s abandonment and the sting of Michael’s sword. And why? Because we loved Him too much,” Lucifer paused, mournful and sad. “My heart _breaks_ for you.”

There was pain and sorrow in Lucifer's frost-covered eyes. Dean could see it plain as day. But behind it was something else. Something sinister. Rage. Hatred. Malice.

Dean took a deep breath, “You can stuff it with that ‘Sympathy for The Devil’ bullshit. I know what you are.”  
  
“And what’s that?”  
  
“The same thing I’ve been fighting my whole life. A vile, evil piece of supernatural shit. The only difference between them and you is you got the bigger ego.” 

Lucifer grinned. In an instant he grabbed Dean by the neck, lifting him up into the air. “I can feel Him. The power of my Father coursing through your veins.” His grip tightened. 

Dean choked, grabbing at Lucifer’s arm.

“It’s the closest I’ve been to Him in _aeons_ and it’s _pained_ me.” Lucifer gritted. “But what pains me more is seeing that power inside _you_ , a little hairless ape!” 

He let go, sending Dean crashing into the ice. Dean gasped for breath, the ice scraping against him, sharp and cold. Before he could get up, Lucifer appeared in front of him, reaching down and grabbing him by the collar.  
  
“You know, _Nazarene,_ it’s a shame The Cage was locked when you were in Hell because I would have _enjoyed_ disemboweling you.” Lucifer hissed, his voice slithering like a snake. “But I’ll get my chance soon enough. Until then, here’s a taste of what I’m going to do to you.” 

Lucifer’s fist thrust into Dean’s chest.  
  
As soon as Lucifer’s hand cracked his sternum, the cold faded and the smell of sulfur disappeared. Dean’s eyes snapped open. He sat up with a start, his body sweating profusely despite the chill in his limbs he still felt, even as the nightmare drifted away and reality set back in. He found himself lying on one of the lumpy beds in his and Bobby’s motel room. Bobby snored on in the other bed, oblivious to the nightmare Dean had endured. 

Breathing heavily, Dean stood and made his way into the bathroom where he quickly splashed his face with hot water.  Pressing his hands against his eyes, he mumbled to himself. “I fear no evil, for you are with me. You are my rod. You are my staff...” 

Dean’s words weren’t in English, but Hebrew. 

He stopped and ran his wet hands down his face before gripping them around the side of the sink, his gaze fixed on his reflection. “Your name is _Dean Winchester_ . You were born January 24th, 1979. You’re an Aquarius and a Goat. Your father’s name is John and your mother’s name is-” Dean paused. “Mary.” Dean pursed his lips, sighing as he dipped his head. “Son of a _bitch_.”

A moment later, Dean heard the sound of flapping wings, followed promptly by a gruff voice.

“You need to stop that. It will alert the other angels to you.”

Dean turned around with a start. “Jesus!”

Half a foot behind him was Castiel.

“Fucking-A, Cas.” Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “How many times do I gotta tell you? Personal Space.”  Dean squinted at him. “More importantly, where the hell have you been? I -”  
  
“I’m being hunted, Dean. I don’t have much time, _”_ Castiel said quickly _,_ walking out of the bathroom. _“_ More importantly, _you_ don’t have much time. Sam is going to break the final Seal.”

“I don’t even know where Sam is!”  
  
“I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :: The idea that Hell has nine layers comes from the Divine Comedy, a three-part epic poem written by Dante Alighieri in the early 14th Century. The first work-Inferno- depicts each layer of Hell being dedicated to one specific sin, each one worst than the last. The ninth layer -Treachery- is where Satan dwells. The idea that Satan is trapped in ice is also from The Divine Comedy 
> 
> :: "Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani?" Is one of seven sayings Jesus is said to have spoken on the cross. It's mentioned in both the Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of Mathew and roughly translates from Aramaic, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

**Author's Note:**

> :: Incorruptibility is a Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox belief that divine intervention allows some human bodies of those canonized as saints and even some beatified individuals are able to avoid the normal process of decomposition after death as a sign of their holiness. Cases are many and go back centuries. Reported stigmatics Saint Cathrine of Siena and Padre Pio are two such examples.
> 
> :: The first Sunday after Easter, also called the Octave of Easter, is referred to in Eastern Orthodox Churches as Thomas Sunday, referring to the gospel passage from the Gospel of John that is read on that Sunday of Jesus appearing to Apostles one week after the resurrection with Thomas present.


End file.
